CSI: Glasgow
by Nomos
Summary: Different city. Different team. Same CSI.
1. Join Together

Disclaimer: CSI and its associated titles belong to Anthony E Zuiker and CBS, although the characters herein are my own. The following characters and events are fictional, and should not be taken otherwise. The story also takes advantage of so-called 'CSI science', namely some methods take far less time than they would in reality, but this is fiction, and intended to be taken as such.

**CSI: GLASGOW**

"When you hear the sound a-coming,

Hear the drummers drumming,

I want you to join together with the band."

**The Who, _Join Together_**.

"Without music, life would be an error."

**Friedrich Nietzsche**.

**  
CHAPTER 1: JOIN TOGETHER**

She was going to kill him, that he was sure of.

He cursed loudly to himself as his Mercedes switched lanes, the tarmac greasy under his wheels from the morning's light rainfall. The evening promised nothing better in the way of weather, dark clouds gathering ominously in patches on the horizon, towards the west, the direction in which he now headed.

Maybe they were her doing, he thought.

Satisfied there were no cars close to him - after all, the Mercedes was brand new and the last thing he needed was some idiotic excuse for a driver taking his paintwork off - he grabbed his Motorola phone from the dash, flipping the screen open. The display did not reassure him; three text messages in store for him, and he could already tell their contents.

The first was probably sent five minutes before he was due to get home, informing him that dinner was almost ready, their night was going to be great.

The second would've come ten minutes later, maybe fifteen, asking if he was okay. She was worried, just let her know what was going on, she'd see him soon.

The third would have come half an hour after that, full of furious content that he'd stayed late at the office again, missed an anniversary dinner again, she was going to stay with her sister, _again_. Dinner would be in the dog.

Maybe dinner _was_ the dog.

Cursing again, he scrolled through the numbers in his phonebook, settling on her name, his thumb about to press the dial button when the sudden flash distracted him, his head whipping up as he expected to see the flared brake lights of the car in front.

Wrong.

It certainly wasn't what he had expected at all.

It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

And for the final split-second of his life, he was terrified.

**  
X X X**

She suppressed a yawn as she strode through the terminal, dragging her wheeled hand luggage behind her, the takeaway, overly-milky coffee in her other hand doing little to wake her. Though the transatlantic flight had been shorter than expected by forty-five minutes thanks to tail winds, it had still knocked the stuffing out of her, resulting in her dozing off immediately after the in-flight meal some joker had decided to term as chicken.

The resulting face that had met her in the arrivals lounge's bathroom mirror was certainly the one of a sleepy transatlantic passenger, but certainly not the one she had wished to present to the world. Shoulder-length blonde hair kinked by the headrest, puffy bags under her emerald eyes that the weak coffee was doing nothing to disperse.

_Great_, she thought. _A new job, a new country, and I arrive looking like I swam here_.

Chicago, Illinois to Glasgow, Scotland; one hell of a different posting for a junior crime scene investigator with a speciality in ballistics, the science of firearms. Six months out of the academy and they hadn't just posted her to a different city, they had posted her to a different continent.

She wasn't entirely sure whether that showed they had great confidence in her or none at all.

A year-long switch with one of the Glasgow locals taking her place back home; "An opportunity to share theories and methods between us and our friends," her supervisor had said, somewhat over-enthusiastically, trying the hard sell. for a start, it was unnecessary; her transfer here was an order, not an offer. Yeah, some opportunity for her to learn, more like a PR opportunity for the local force and a bum deal for her. She was work experience over here, nothing more. An entire year of trailing around, acting the good junior investigator and smiling at every weak joke she came across, no doubt every single one aimed at the fact she was a Yank.

From the millions of citizens in Chicago to less than 600,000 in Glasgow, it was another amusing example of what the Brits termed a city. After all, there were less people living in the whole of Scotland then in New York City alone. If anything, it was going to be a boring twelve months.

And cold, she thought as she stepped out of Glasgow International's lounge and into the bleakest day she had ever had the misfortune to see. A deathly-grey sky blanketed everything, while a cold drizzle whipped past intermittently, chilling her to the bone even under her thick brown wool coat. It was like the bleak winter days so common in Chicago, but a thousand times more depressing somehow.

_It just gets better_... she grumbled to herself as a young uniformed police officer stepped out of the crowd towards her, seemingly content in black shirt-sleeves and stab-proof vest despite the weather. His all-black uniform was similar to U.S. patrol officers in almost every way, except that on his right hip, instead of the automatic pistol that American officers carried and were so dependant on, all the young officer was armed with was a small can of mace. Leaving her firearm behind, that was another thing she would have to get used to, and wasn't relishing. At the academy, the cadets were reminded on every available occasions to always make sure their sidearm was carried and maintained, and had been regaled with numerous stories of CSI's, both novice and experienced, that had been injured or killed after forgetting or neglecting their weapons.

"Abby Parker?" the young officer addressed her. At least he'd gotten her name right, and she'd been able to understand the locals. The Scots were famed for their quick speech, rendering them almost incomprehensible to others, or at least Abby had been informed so.

She nodded and smiled, seeing no need to take her displeasure on her posting out on a charming enough guy. After all, being a bitch wouldn't help her one bit; the Scots were almost as famous for their limited capacity for accepting bull as they were for their speech, or again, as she had been told.

The officer took her case without prompt, placing it in the trunk - or boot as the Brits termed it - of the waiting squad car; a white Ford with blue and yellow markings, before opening the passenger door for Abby. Twenty seconds later, the two officers were making their run out of the airport's short-term car park, the grey concrete paving matching the sky wonderfully. The fact the the young Scots policeman, who had introduced himself as Police Constable (P.C.) Phil Ferguson, was driving on the left-hand side of the road unnerved Abby greatly, despite the fact that this was another thing the Brits did. As far as she was concerned, they were on the wrong side of the road, and it was yet another thing she was going to have to get used to.

"So, good flight?" Ferguson asked.

"Yeah, I've had worse," Abby replied, glancing up onto the freeway, no, _motorway_ - another Briticism - that they were pulling on to. Backed-up traffic moved slowly, snarling its way along the road, no doubt delaying further her arrival at her new apartment, her belongings sent ahead of time already waiting for her there. Of course, that was a blessing, but it did mean that she still had the joys of unpacking to look forward to.

And then there was the big first meeting with her new boss, that very evening. A quick informal chat had been promised, nothing holding her up too much. Still, it was her big make-or-break moment, her chance to prove how keen she actually was, underneath the scepticism and jetlag, and she wasn't prepared to blow it.

Searching for a joke to crack, she nodded ahead to the snarled up traffic that faced them as they eased onto the motorway. "I guess Scots drivers are just as lousy as we are back in the U.S., huh?" she smiled.

"Something like that," Ferguson replied with a knowing smile, flicking on the car's lights and sirens as he eased the vehicle onto the shoulder before speeding past the stationary traffic.

**  
X X X  
**

It had been, until very recently, a functioning helicopter.

Damaged beyond almost all recognition, it lay scattered and mangled across the westbound lanes of the motorway, the tail section lying a good twenty feet from the main body of the chopper, which was partially blackened from some kind of fire or explosion, and resting flush on top of one unfortunate car which had been almost crushed flat with the impact.

Abby Parker could only hope the driver had been fortunate enough to escape somehow, but one thing she had learned already as a CSI was that happy endings and last-second escapes were very, very rare indeed. Also rare were her chances of getting home tonight; it seemed that her introduction to the crime lab staff had been instructed by someone to begin as soon as possible.

Various twisted pieces of the aircraft lay in a shallow pool of foam, the fire department having blanketed the crash site in the fire-retardant material, although as far as Abby could see, there looked as if there had been relatively little fire damage to the aircraft, externally at least. White plastic screens had been erected to shield off the crash site from the prying eyes of the drivers that were being diverted around the scene, as well as similar open-ended tents that offered protection from any rain that would fall.

The police Ford came to a halt at the edge of the demarked crime scene, blue tape roping off the area while a number of figures went about their duties, from police to paramedics. Abby was out as soon as it stopped, her curiosity perked already.

_Maybe not such a boring place to work after all_, she thought.

"Hell of a welcome we put on for you," the voice said. She whirled to be greeted with a smile from a young man, late twenties, with a smooth dark complexion and thick black hair cut and styled fashionably messy. "We don't just give this to all our new arrivals."

"What, this is some kind of exercise?" she asked.

"I wish," the young Scot replied. "I'm Rav," he said, offering his hand, "Rav Passenar, I'm part of the crime lab team you're attached to for your stay. I know I'm not the boss, but I guess I'm the best you're getting at the moment..." he cast his hand towards the wreckage. "Sorry," he smiled.

"No problem," she replied. "Abby Parker, but you knew that already, didn't you?"

"Wouldn't be in this job otherwise, would I? I know this isn't what you were expecting, but here's your welcome gift," Rav said, producing a pair of elasticated booties, used by investigative personnel to avoid taking contaminants into crime scenes. With cases that sometimes depend on a tiny spec of dirt of single fibre, it was of the highest importance to any CSI to ensure that no shred of evidence could be called into question. One mistake could be enough to release almost any defendant.

"I'm going in _already_?" Abby asked. She was tired, unprepared, hardly the best condition to be collecting evidence.

"Just for a moment, to meet the boss," Rav answered.

"You sure he won't mind being disturbed?"

"Nah, it was him that asked for you to be brought here anyway."

She slipped on the booties and stepped under the tape, slightly hesitantly, before realising Rav wasn't moving.

"Not coming?" she called.

"Not my case, got something else to finish off. But I'll meet you when you're back, give you a quick tour of the lab before we get you home."

"Thanks. Anything else I should know?"

"Don't eat yellow snow," Rav laughed. "Oh, and watch that first question... It really is a bitch."

"First question?"

"You'll find out."

With that, an officer escorted Abby through the crash site, bypassing minute pieces of evidence, whether they were glass shards, metal fragments or undetermined burnt objects, each marked with numbered yellow markers. She had never seen a crime scene on this level before, at least in the flesh. Most junior investigators hadn't either, and each time their feelings were the same; complete disorientation.

The officer stopped short of the mangle of steel, a plastic tent protecting the wreckage. Harsh reality struck Abby as she noticed part of a corpse lying beside the crushed Mercedes, possibly part of a forearm, although without closer inspection she couldn't be sure.

The figure hunched next to the wreckage, however, was paying no attention to the body part resting on the ground, instead swabbing the inner window frame of the helicopter before placing the cotton-tipped swab in a glass tube, itself marked with a handwritten label.

Abby recalled the basic facts she knew about him before abruptly noticing the thin wire that ran from a plastic bud in his right ear down into his shirt. At first she thought it was part of a radio device or hearing aid before realising that it was in fact the headphones of some kind of music player.

"Dr Faulds?" Abby offered, not quite sure if he would hear her or not.

"Cameron's fine," he said in his soft Scots burr, smiling as he stood.

Dr Cameron Faulds; a thin, boyishly-handsome face, short sandy brown hair, and a pair of stylish jeans and plastic booty-encased running shoes complimenting his investigator's uniform could have made him pass for a whole decade younger than his real age of 35, which was in itself an exceptionally young age to be a CSI department head, no matter where.

But then, some said Faulds was an exceptional CSI.

With a doctorate in behavioural sciences and criminal psychology, Faulds was one of that rare breed of officers that not only knows how criminals act, but also how they _think_; a manhunter. According to the varied stories Abby had heard about Faulds, he had an uncanny ability to put himself in the mind of a killer, to second-guess their actions, to know with absolute certainty what they had done and how they had felt where others just guessed. A couple of his textbooks had even been required reading at the academy.

Even now she could still recall the quotation that Faulds had begun his first book with; _'To know the artist, first study his art'_.

But putting yourself in the mind of a killer is not the best place to be for a healthy, rational mind. There were rumours, only rumours, that his job had taken its toll on him in many ways. Most had been wild flights of fancy, but Abby guessed that once someone _truly_ realised the darkness in others, a normal life was never possible.

CSIs and police across the world shared the same common hatred; that of so-called 'motiveless' crimes. When everything else was said and done, all evidence collected and analysed, the case closed, it itched away at many investigators that there was occasionally no given reason for a man to open fire with a shotgun in a crowded bar, or for a woman to poison her children with household chemicals, or for a businessman to torch his office with the staff inside. Of course, there never could be a good reason for murder, but criminals and criminalists alike usually sided with motives of revenge or greed or mental illness, but there were some that just did it for no reason in the world.

They just wanted to.

They had to.

They needed it like oxygen or food.

Faulds had apparently built his career on these insights, able to put himself in the mind of these unreadable killers, able to think like them, plot out their next move, and move in to make the arrest.

That was the rumour anyway.

Abby went to shake Faulds' gloved hand before realising her mistake; any external materials, however small, could compromise any investigation. Even if it did not affect the findings in any way, a good defence lawyer would pounce on the validity of evidence collected by a sloppy CSI.

"Welcome to Scotland, and welcome to your new patch. I've had the pleasure of working with you guys back in the States, so I know the culture shock you'll be feeling just now."

Abby smiled, almost out of relief. At least someone had an idea of how she felt.

"There's a lot to get your head around; different justice system, different laws, different methods of procedure, so if it gets too much for you at any point, don't be afraid to put your hand up and ask anything at any time, okay?" Faulds gestured back at the city skyline behind him, barely visible through the low cloud. "I know we'll seem small, but the worst mistake you can make here is to underestimate this city."

"Oh, I won't…" Abby blurted out before she realised Faulds was simply giving her a heads-up, not a rebuke.

He nodded. "We may be small, but this is like no city in the world, believe me. We have a higher murder rate per capita than New York City, we have the highest murder rate in Western Europe, the highest rate of serious knife crime in Britain. Within a mile of each other you'll find some of the richest and the poorest communities in the UK, and if you have any Classical Criminology beliefs of free will, when you see some of the deprivation we've got there, those beliefs will be tested. One of our biggest problems is sectarian-related crimes, between the Catholic and Protestant communities in the city, or more specifically, the football teams related to them." Faulds paused for a second. "Soccer, I mean. Not the American kind, which I have to confess that I just don't get."

Abby shrugged. "I don't get kicking a ball when you've got two perfectly good hands."

He grinned, showing a wide toothy smile. "Can't argue with that logic, I guess. Anyway, we have a growing community of refugees and asylum seekers, and although things are usually quiet, all it takes is one assault, robbery or murder to really get all hell breaking loose. There's also four major universities as well as numerous colleges, so we have a large, diverse student population, on top of a commuting workforce that travels to the city's various industries, which take in everything from financial services, heavy shipbuilding and biosciences to retail, healthcare and communications.

"As for gangs, we deal with groups affiliated to both sides of the Irish divide, while the Chinese Triads are slowly moving in on territory held by Arabic gangs. That's not discounting the Scottish crime families who have their fingers in everything from protection rackets, drugs and illegal security to gun running, armed robbery and fraud. Every once in a while a turf war breaks out over one of these areas, and that's when it gets messy. Public executions, firebombing family homes, it all goes on in Glasgow."

Abby inhaled deeply. It certainly wasn't what she'd been expecting by ways of an introduction. Certainly not next to a crashed helicopter.

Faulds smiled, doing his best to reassure the nervous young CSI. "Listen, I know it's a lot to take in, but I also know you'll be fine. You've got the best investigators and support staff in the country working alongside you, although I'm not sure if other cities will agree with me on that one. Abby, no-one expects you to prove yourself here, no-one wants you to burn yourself out in your first week by breaking every case and regaling us with your new-found knowledge of Glasgow. You're a member of my team now, and that means if you've got a problem or a complaint, we've all got it.

"All I can do on my part is to promise you that you will never be left out of anything, you'll never be burdened with anything, and I'll do my very best to help you with whatever you need. Now, duty unfortunately calls."

They said their goodbyes as Faulds turned back to the crashed chopper, Abby turning on her heel before his voice interrupted her.

"Just one thing before you go."

"Yeah?" she asked, turning back.

"Who's the best drummer ever?"

She blinked once, Faulds still keenly investigating the wreckage, but clearly expecting a reply.

"Uh, well..." she offered, the question having completely thrown her. After all, Rav's warning had her expecting a routine quiz on scene quartering, or procedure, or _anything_, apart from drummers.

"Time's running out, Abby."

"Dave Grohl," she blurted, the only drummer she could possibly think of. Whether he was the best or not, that was a different matter.

"Hmm," was all that Faulds replied, rising to his feet.

"So, did I get it right?"

"We'll see. Sorry for the brief introduction, and sorry for hitting you with the worst the city has to offer, but in this job it pays to be prepared. But don't worry, Rav'll take good care of you. Hopefully you'll even have enough time to get some food before you get the call."

"No rest for the wicked, huh?"

"Or for those that have to catch them. Listen, Rav'll give you the full tour and I'll introduce you to the rest of the team later, but I'm looking forward to working with you tomorrow morning."

"Me too. And no offence, but I'm looking forward to getting home, too, wherever it is." She paused, realising that the furthest she'd got from the airport was a mile. "Hell, I don't even know where we are right now."

"Don't you listen to AC/DC?" he asked with a wry smile, motioning towards the wreckage and bodies as he slipped his earphones back on. "We're on the highway to hell."


	2. Ground Control

**CHAPTER 2. GROUND CONTROL**

Faulds, with full aural accompaniment from Ike and Tina Turner's _River Deep, Mountain High_, took a single step back from the main body of wreckage, staring intently at the twisted mangle of metal and bodies, as if a clue or sudden insight would magically appear out of thin air.

Because for Faulds, they usually did.

His mind automatically ran through the details he knew. First, a private helicopter, likely from the nearby international airport, still to be confirmed along with its destination, exploded or was consumed by a sudden fire while in mid-air, before plunging down onto the unfortunate car that was mangled underneath the chopper's body, killing the driver, his identity still to be confirmed.

Thankfully - at least for Faulds' investigation - the fuel in the tanks had burst out and back as it had ignited, leaving the interior of the cabin relatively untouched. Faulds had investigated fires before where only shreds of evidence had remained, everything else burnt to ashes by lengthy, sustained fire. No, this was different; short, sharp and powerful.

There had been more than enough force however, to kill the people in the aircraft, more than likely before they hit the ground from the evidence he had so far collected. Digital and 35mm photographs, traces of unburnt fuel on cotton swabs, powders and fragments on adhesive mounts, larger pieces with tweezers or gloves, even buckets of the fire-retardant foam sprayed onsite by firefighters in the off-chance any trace evidence had been swept out by the liquid, all methodically documented and accounted for, piles of handwritten notes and photographs detailing their discovery and their relation to the main crash site.

Fortunately for Faulds, the mass of evidence was scattered over just a small area of road, making it easy to collect, but something about that unsettled him. He filed it at the back of his mind for later, coming back again to what he knew, what he saw, what was directly in front of him, and very much deceased.

It seemed as though there had been three occupants of the chopper, with two burnt bodies in the pilot and co-pilot's seats, as well as what appeared to be the fragmented remains of a third victim in a rear seat. Whether or not there was a third victim of the fire/explosion was still to be confirmed, as Faulds still had a few areas of the front of the chopper to work on before he moved to the back, methodically - always methodically - collecting evidence and samples as he went.

He had tackled the chopper head on for a reason, or at least as much of a reason as the current evidence would provide;

The figure - or what remained of it - to the rear of the helicopter was damaged far more severely than the front two, and had been thrown forward in the cabin, not backwards, indicating that the explosion or fire had occurred at the rear of the aircraft, which could indicate an accidental or otherwise explosion in the fuel tanks, or if not, an explosion from _within_ the cabin. And if there had been an explosion in the cabin, things really got interesting.

An explosion at the rear of the cabin meant explosives, and explosives meant residue.

In his mind's eye, Faulds could picture the interior of the aircraft, and in a surreal slow-motion, could imagine it being rocked by a mighty explosion from the rear. Ahead of the shockwave and fire of the explosion, billions of minute fragments of the explosive would rocket out, peppering the interior of the aircraft. Although many would be destroyed by the fire, some would survive, and if they were there, Faulds would find them.

And then whoever put them there.

"Cameron Faulds, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."

Faulds said nothing, suppressing the smile her comment instinctively raised.

"I mean, exploding helicopters...it's a first for me."

"Me too," he said, taking out his earphones but continuing to stare at the wreckage.

She wasn't offended by his limited response, not now. Years back, when they had first worked together, she had taken his silences, deep thought, and of course, perpetual music, as a sign of his indifference.

Now, she just knew it was Faulds being, well, Faulds.

"Wreckage indicates an explosion or sudden combustion at the rear of the aircraft, powerful enough to rip the tail from the body, but not so much that it blew the thing to pieces," he said, tapping his fingers on his jeans rhythmically. "If this was planned, then this isn't overkill, it's not a crazed act. This isn't someone that got their hands on a internet how-to manual on home-made bomb construction."

"We've got someone that knows at least a little about explosives."

"And control. Control over the explosion, and control over themselves, their emotions. And that worries me, Charlotte."

CSI Charlotte Graham nodded. Cameron Faulds' second-in-command was decidedly professional-looking in comparison to her partner, with a charcoal trouser suit, polished shoes and brown hair tied back to keep the mass of curls away from her face. Smooth fair skin and blue eyes were a hallmark of Scots heritage, as much as her luggage was a hallmark of her profession. The stainless steel case she placed on the ground carried the same equipment as most CSIs around the world, and like every other investigator, once that case opened, it was game time.

"You're not the only one that's worried," she said while pulling on the latex gloves that prevented scene contamination as well as protecting her from the myriad of dangers that could be found at any crime scene. "The airport's closing down to all flights, the media's all over this, the public are bound to be worried that we're seeing more terrorist strikes on our cities..." The gloves snapped tight. "But this isn't terrorism, is it?"

"Not in the conventional sense, no," Faulds replied, turning for the first time to face her since she arrived. "Terrorism is about creating a huge statement for your beliefs, whereas this was small, private, personal. No, the public are safe on this one."

"Apart from this poor guy," Charlotte said, peering into the wreckage of the flattened car with the aid of her Maglite torch. "So a small explosion and fire, huh? More indicates mechanical failure of some type rather than explosives. Odds are in that favour too, you know that only five per cent of aircraft crashes since the 1950's are as a direct cause of sabotage?"

"Whereas thirteen per cent are mechanical failure," Faulds nodded. "But can you tell me that last time that you played the odds on something?"

"You know I never gamble," she smiled.

Faulds said nothing in reply. He knew Charlotte Graham well enough to know that his partner wasn't the gambling type; too many variables and unknowns for her brilliant, methodical mind to bother with. Out of all the investigators he had worked with, Faulds knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Charlotte had the keenest eyes of any CSI he had known. There had been many a time where her sharp investigative skills had picked out evidence others, even Faulds himself had missed, and Faulds would be the first to point this out.

"Right, I got the information you sent to my PDA," she said. "What do you need me to do?"

"Same thing you always do, help me crack this case."

"You know, once, just once, I'd love you to say you want me to do nothing, just go home, relax and watch TV."

"As if you'd listen to me."

She grinned. "Still, the offer would be nice. You taken a look at the vic from the car yet? Think there's a chance of a connection?"

"No and no, at least I can't think why someone would kamikaze a moving car in a helicopter just to kill someone."

As Charlotte went to speak, Faulds held his hands up.

"Yes, I know I'm always the first to come up with some strange theories, but Charlotte, there _are_ easier ways of killing someone than this method."

"I'll let it slide this once. So work on the chopper then the car?"

Faulds nodded, motioning towards the mangled driver. "I'm sorry to say, he's the least of our concerns at the moment." It was a tough but necessary part of the job for any investigator; learning that everything was evidence. It may be glass, blood, or a whole body, but it was all evidence, and all evidence had priorities, which meant looking for the source of the explosion to begin with. Identifying and returning secondary victims came way back.

"I've collected samples of black powder from the window frame and the collar of the pilot and sent them off to trace," Faulds continued. "But there's something else I want you to look at."

He led Charlotte to the co-pilot's side of the aircraft, to see one victim blown forward and slumped against the control panel, his body horrifically burnt, arms twisted at unnatural angles. Charlotte knew that the heat of the blast would have instantly dehydrated the muscles of the exposed arms, contracting them into the so-called boxer's position, whereas the shockwave of the blast would have slammed into the bodies with great force, especially at such close range. And it was possibly the shockwave that had snapped this victim's neck, twisting his head 180 degrees so that it faced backwards. Possible, but in this line of work, it had to be proved.

The co-pilot's face was pressed against the control panel, facing completely the opposite way that it was supposed to, having taken the brunt of the blast, his face horrifically damaged from the combined effects of the blast, fire and shrapnel.

"Take a look at this," Faulds said, crouching down to get a view from below. Charlotte copied him, following his torch beam to a small spot, fingernail-size on the man's left cheek, burnt _onto_ the flesh.

"Plastic?" she asked, photographing the mark before Faulds carefully detached the spot with thin-nosed tweezers, dropping it into a glass Petri dish.

"There's something else here, a brown power residue of some kind, been burnt, pretty badly, but I'll try a work-up back at the lab. Part of the explosive, maybe?"

"Maybe," she said, studying it closely. "Or maybe not. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm thinking we need to find out who was onboard this aircraft."

**X X X**

"If this doesn't prove I'm right about air travel, _nothing_ will."

Faulds shot a look. "Statistically it's still the safest way to travel."

"_Statistically_ it's unlikely I'll win the lottery, but I still play every week."

"And you've still not won."

"Ah, but when I do, I'll give you something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, a nice little postcard from the Caribbean for you and your statistics to look at in that lab of yours."

Faulds laughed as he stepped out of the elevator, matching Detective Inspector Craig Monaghan stride for stride. Monaghan was only two years older than Faulds, but life and the job had been tougher to him. Physically, at least. A skewed nose from breaking up too many fights as a beat cop matched a mouth set to perpetual scowl when it wasn't lopsidedly grinning to another lousy joke of his own. With the build of a rugby player, Monaghan was big, solid, and frighteningly effective at his job when it was required.

Faulds and Monaghan reached the room they were looking for and entered without knocking. The security control room of Glasgow International Airport was a hive of activity, loud and manic and chaotic. CCTV screens showed silent pictures of the scored of annoyed passengers in the terminal below, fuming at the fact the airport had been shut to nearly all in and outbound flights, with Abby Parker's flight from Chicago the last to arrive before the lockdown.

Security staff barked into microphones, co-ordinating both the handling of the passengers and the search of the airport buildings and aircraft for any possible explosives or bomber, accompanied of course by the police.

Monaghan nodded at one of the screens. "I think we're about to have a wild mob down there."

Faulds smiled a little. "Have you ever noticed when something like this happens, delays, closures and the like, people become fascinated with announcement boards? I mean, they stand and stare at these devices like they're waiting on an answer from the Almighty."

"Never noticed it. Usually 'cause I'm one of the ones staring."

The two men made their way over to a harassed-looking man, his light suit dampening with sweat around the lapels and cuffs as he surveyed the chaos.

"Mr Brewer?" Monaghan asked, addressing the airport's chief of operations, seemingly snapping him out of a daze. "Mr Brewer, were you able to find what we were looking for?"

"Oh, er, yes. Yes we have," he replied, his arm indicating the detective and the CSI to a small office to the rear of the security room, passing a file folder to Monaghan. As they walked, Brewer spoke quickly. "I'm, er, very sorry about all of this, it's just we've never...well, you know."

"Had something like this occur?" Faulds asked. "It looks like everything's progressing just as we need."

"Oh yes, we've had the drills of course, but this is a _real_ act of terrorism. I've never had to worry about some real psychopath leaving real bombs around my airport before."

Faulds caught himself on the brink of telling Brewer that the killer certainly wasn't a psychopath, anything but. This attack had been cool, calm and collected, set for a specific time and for a reason, not simply killing for killing's sake. Already Faulds had a theory beginning to form in his mind, and he didn't like it whatsoever.

"I'm sure you and your airport will be fine," he said simply.

"We'll have this guy in the cells as soon as possible," Monaghan added. "Even quicker once we talk to your guy in here."

They stepped into the office, a man rising from the table and chairs in the centre of the room as they did.

"Hey," he said, holding his palms up and out in a gesture of honesty. "I just want you to know that..."

"Perfect," Faulds said, unwrapping a swab and drawing it down the left palm of the man, who was dressed in dirty airport staff overalls before copying the procedure on the other hand with a second swab.

"What the hell is this for?" the man demanded, somewhat taken aback.

"Finding things," Faulds replied, sealing the swabs in paper containers.

"What _kind_ of things?"

Faulds met his stare for the first time. "Anything," he said with a smile.

And just then, it was Monaghan's turn to take over.

"Dean," he said," I'm DI Monaghan, just want to ask you a few questions, okay? Now we know you were on shift when the chopper left, and you were the one responsible for the refuelling and loading duties..."

"Whoa, waitaminute. Are you saying I'm a suspect here?"

"No, we're saying you were the last person to deal with this chopper before it ended up as an attractive yet sadly unfunctional car decal, which, co-incidentally, ended up killing the driver. That's four victims now, at least that we know about."

"I had nothing to do with this," the man - Dean - insisted. "Absolutely nothing. Never been in trouble with the cops in my life, so I'm not gonna start by killing four people, am I?"

"So what happened?" Monaghan asked.

"Same as every outbound flight. We received the flight plans from the pilot beforehand and fuelled accordingly, then loaded the cargo into the rear of the aircraft. It's a...it _was_ a Bell 109E, passenger aircraft, so no designated cargo hold."

"So you put the cargo in the rear of the cabin, right?" Faulds asked. "Behind the passengers' seats?"

"Yeah, there's floor eyelets in the 109 for lashing cargo to, nothing much. This was only a couple of cases, heavy, mind you."

"You check the cases?" Monaghan asked.

"Yeah, both us loaders and the customs boys before us. Can't be too careful with things like that these days. It was computer gear, I think. Processors and things, or at least the salesman said."

"Salesman?"

"Said he was going to some kind of expo to show off his latest stuff, nice enough guy. A lot of businessmen you get through the private helipad are quite full of it, you know? They won't even talk to us, as if we're beneath them. Now _they_ deserve to go out like this," he grinned.

Faulds shot a steely glare. "No-one deserves to die like this."

Monaghan let the tension hang in the air for a second before speaking once more. "Where was the destination anyway?"

"Belfast."

"Belfast, huh? Flights from here to Northern Ireland common?"

"Common as anywhere else. There's a lot of big money men comes rolling through this little pad, and they don't like to be told where they're landing, believe me. These guys fly all over the country, usually from meeting to meeting, or so they brag, so yeah, it's not that unusual."

"What do you think?" Monaghan asked over his shoulder.

"What I think…" Faulds said, fishing his MP3 player from his pocket. "I think this is going exactly where I hoped it wouldn't."


	3. Radar Love

**CHAPTER 3: RADAR LOVE**

"You know, there are days when I wish that I still worked with the living."

"What, and miss all the excitement?" Charlotte asked. "What other job gives you this?"

Dr Beth Adams raised a thin eyebrow. "You mean the psychopaths, the liars, the general waste of human life?" The on-call Medical Examiner slipped a mound of mangled bone and flesh into a plastic bag, applying a plastic seal and initialling it with as much indifference as she would with an ordinary letter.

Beth was 52, with high, sharp features and a steely stare that had, at one point or another, bored through every detective, CSI, lawyer, judge or reporter in the Glasgow metropolitan area. As one of the senior medical examiners in the city, Beth was no stranger to the worst of the crimes investigated by the department, and had been a key factor in convicting many of those responsible.

"Well…" Charlotte said through gritted teeth as she prised open a small access hatch on the chassis of the helicopter before examining the darkened insides with her torch, the beam illuminating an orange steel panel, the aircraft's flight recorder. "…There's no accounting for taste. Damn, we need to get this lot back to the lab…do we have clearance to move the wreckage yet?"

"Knowing Cameron…" Beth said. "He's treading on someone's toes over this, you can be certain of that."

"You know he's just determined."

"Determined to get himself fired, perhaps," Beth replied, casually handling a severed section of ribcage. "He does worry me sometimes."

"You and me both..."

"But you do trust him?"

"Beth," Charlotte replied quickly, before realising there was a definite edge to her voice. "That goes without saying."

"Good."

Charlotte resumed her examination for a moment before pausing once more. "I thought you knew better than to ask that. You know I trust Cameron unreservedly. Yeah, he's made some mistakes, but we all have."

"Charlotte, I believe you. Out of everyone in the department, I know you've stood by him more than anyone, and if it wasn't for you…"

"But?" Charlotte interrupted.

"But, and I'm ashamed to admit it, but you cannot avoid hearing some rumours, some just refuse to go away. And I worry that something will happen, you'll reach breaking point and you'll be gone."

Charlotte smiled slightly. "I'm not planning on going anywhere. I'll admit, he does drive me crazy sometimes. Some of the things he does angers the life out of me, more for what he puts himself through rather than anything else, but more than anything I know _why_ he does it."

"Method behind the madness," Beth joked dryly.

"At least he usually does these things for the correct reasons, even if it's not always the correct _method_," Charlotte said. "But this much I know, no matter what, Cameron Faulds will always be Cameron Faulds."

_But obviously, that's exactly what some people in this department don't want,_ she suddenly thought. _Thing is, is it enough for them to just talk, or does someone actively want Faulds out of CSI? _

"Huh, speak of the devil," Charlotte said on hearing the electronic beep from her pocket and flicking open her cellphone. "Mr Faulds?" she asked with a smile, relieved for the tension to be broken.

"Where are we?"

"_You_ are in a nice warm airport, and I'm out on a motorway with body parts. Apart from that, I've collected as much trace as I can from the cabin, but we need to get back to the lab with the rest of the wreckage. What about you?"

"Flight was Belfast-bound."

The statement was simple enough, but it opened up a whole other world of possibilities.

"Are we thinking a paramilitary connection?" she asked after a long moment. Although the destination of the flight could end up being completely incidental, it also could mean there was a link to Irish terrorist groups, many of whom had both the means and expertise to down a helicopter.

The link between Irish terrorism and Glasgow was strong and lengthy, with many members for both Loyalist and Republican sides to be found in the city, as well as scores of supporters within the city's Protestant and Catholic communities. Many prominent members of the various terror organizations had relocated from Ireland to Glasgow over the years, using the city as a relatively safer and more secure base from which to continue their operations.

As was common with many terrorist groups, both sides professed an interest in a greater good, a cause to fight and kill for, but in reality were nothing more than criminal gangs. While they spouted rhetoric of either 'protecting' or 'recombining' Ireland for the good of its citizens, they were heavily involved in drug dealing, weapons smuggling, prostitution and sickening violence.

Violence related to the Irish divide was nothing new in Glasgow, with low-level street attacks common nearly every weekend, but the prospect of a bombing campaign meant a large number of possible targets, victims and suspects, and chilled Charlotte to the bone.

"There's possible evidence of drugs onboard, and now we find out the destination's Belfast…" Faulds mused. "Yeah, get everything back to the lab, as soon as."

Mindful of the conversation with Beth, she turned and lowered her voice. "Do we have the go-ahead on this?"

"We're CSI, this is our call."

"And no-one else has a say on this?" she asked pointedly.

"Don't worry, I'm doing everything by the book." He paused for a second. "Well, maybe _my_ book."

She sighed lightly, deciding to drop the issue, at least for the moment. "Anything else about the flight?"

"I'm looking at documents, flight plans and CCTV of the private departure lounge. Nothing suspicious that I can see on the tapes. No-one following, nothing out of the ordinary around the aircraft. All very normal and everyday. We've got three names from the flight documents, pilot's name is George Boyle, co-pilot is Martin Dehany, passenger was Gordon Carr, I'll run their details once I get back to the lab and see if there's any link to paramilitary groups."

"Progress at least."

Faulds answered with a non-committal hum.

"Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

"Something…something just doesn't make sense about all of this. It has all the hallmarks of a regular bombing, but on the other hand… On the other hand, there's something about this that I can't put my finger on."

"Like?"

"Like if this was a paramilitary hit then why couldn't they wait until the vics were on the ground in Belfast, or struck before they got to the aircraft? All something like this does is draw attention to paramilitary outfits, and that's the last thing they want."

"For argument's sake, what if whoever is behind this found out that the intended victim was flying to Belfast at short notice and had to act quickly?"

"True…" he mused. "But…it's still just not right. Typical paramilitary killings are close, personal. Executions and beatings, and you leave a body as warning to others. A typical bomber who's out to kill likes to blow big and blow hot. This is neither, it's somewhere in between."

"What does that leave us with? A highly violent paramilitary or a self-restrained bomber?"

"It leave us with a nasty little enigma, Charlotte. Someone wanted this chopper to explode, and didn't care about who was hurt in the process. They just got whatever they wanted. This is personal, spiteful…"

"Revenge?"

"Maybe."

"Then there's a link from at least one of our victims to the killer," she said, watching Beth carefully remove the last of the corpses from the helicopter. "And that puts us one step closer to catching them."

**XXX**

Faulds snapped his Nokia shut, turning to Monaghan.

"What's the deal?" the detective asked.

"Beth's handling the vics, Charlotte's taking care of the wreckage, working up the rest of the scene and dealing with the black box," Faulds replied, referring to the near-indestructible flight recorder found on all aircraft. After the rescue of survivors, the recovery of the black box was always the next step in any air crash, the recorder giving details of the various measurements from the aircraft right up until the moment of the crash; everything from airspeed and altitude to the radio signals sent and received by the aircraft. Often the black box was the key to understanding any air crash, instrumental in determining whether the cause was accidental or sabotage.

"Are you sure about this?" Monaghan asked. "I mean, I'm just a simple copper, bit even I know that this kinda thing falls into the remit of Air Accident Investigation Branch. They're not gonna be happy about us taking over their crash site, and if they mount a legal fight over jurisdiction then this whole case could be tied up for weeks in red tape."

"Craig, let me worry about the AAIB if and when it occurs."

"If?"

"We're running the clock here. If we can pull in enough evidence to clearly mark it as a criminal investigation, we can stall the AAIB long enough for us to put this one in the bag."

Monaghan gave a squint grin. "You know, for a nice guy, you sure are territorial."

"What can I say, I just don't trust anyone as much as I trust my lab. That's why I want to get to air traffic control, get a playback of the radar recordings at the time of the crash and see if there's anything it can tell us."

"I've seen enough disaster movies to ask what a green blip on a screen can tell us that the flight recorder can't."

"You know how they say think outside the box, well it's time we thought outside the chopper."

**XXX**

"The aircraft takes off at 4:02pm, but we don't catch it on radar until 4:03, as you see here."

"It can't track below a certain height?" Faulds asked.

"100 feet," the radar technician replied. Faulds, Monaghan and the tech were stood around a radar console off to the left of the airport's control tower. The tower would normally have been bustling with activity and staff, but due to the shutdown, a skeleton staff was left diverting incoming aircraft to other airports as well as monitoring the airspace.

"Doesn't that leave gaps in your coverage?" Monaghan asked the tech.

"Not in this instance. There are too many large structures around for us to gain an accurate radar scan under 100 feet, they'd just interfere with our monitoring. Besides, anything below that is visible from the ground."

Faulds meanwhile was staring intently at the screen, displaying a looping playback of the radar scan from the time the aircraft took off until it crashed. Each rotation of the radar dome plotted the course of the aircraft moving steadily away from the airport before it paused for a short time, the radar contact remaining in a stationary position before disappearing completely. As Faulds watched the replay loop over and over, he inadvertently found himself speaking out loud.

"That's why there wasn't a large debris field."

"Excuse me?" Monaghan asked.

"Er, the debris field, it was small for an aircraft crash," Faulds said. "Imagine a moving aircraft when something goes wrong. You've got parts of the fuselage and fuel coming off and scattering everywhere, right? We don't have this out there, the debris is only a small distance from the aircraft…So there's nothing that strikes the chopper?" he asked, turning to the tech.

"You mean like a missile?"

"That or a rocket-propelled grenade."

Monaghan whistled. "You CSIs really do have an active imagination."

"You wouldn't believe the number of times we're right."

The tech looked up. "Well you're wrong this time. Nothing external strikes the aircraft."

"The radar couldn't have missed it on a sweep?"

"No way. Like most major airports, we operate a secondary track system interlinked with the regular radar. It's designed to pick up on anti-aircraft tracking signals and detect any supersonic ordinance launches. If anyone fired a missile or grenade at that aircraft, we'd have seen it. Although if it was small arms fire, rifle, machine gun or whatever, neither of the systems would pick it up. Projectiles are too small, you see."

Faulds did not reply, instead staring at the display screen, watching the radar track repeat over and over.

"So much for your rocket theory," Monaghan said.

"That wasn't my theory," Faulds replied, before pointing at the screen. "That's my theory."

"Listen, I know I've said this on many an occasion over the years, but you're gonna have to explain yourself a little more."

Faulds traced the track of the radar blip with his finger. "The chopper takes off, flies for a minute, then goes into a stationary hover for two minutes before something causes it to drop out of the sky."

"It's feasible that they were having some kind of trouble. Maybe they didn't want to go any further before they checked it out."

"Then why not broadcast a distress signal, or even notify the tower that they would maybe have to return to the field? We know that they didn't make any such call to the tower at least."

"Maybe they didn't think it was that serious. Hell, maybe the pilot just spilled coffee in his lap."

Faulds grimaced as he thought. "There's something behind this. There's some reason why it stopped…before it was stopped permanently."


	4. Lab Rats

**CHAPTER 4: LAB RATS  
**

Gently, the crane lowered the wreckage of the helicopter to the ground, huge sheets of blue plastic stretched out across the garage floor of the Glasgow Crime Scene Investigation lab.

Techs scuttled around the chopper like a swarm of insects, making sure everything was present and correct, matching up the locations of the pieces according to Faulds and Charlotte's crime scene photographs and diagrams. With all vehicle-related crime scenes, whether it was car, bus, helicopter or boat, it was the preferred method of most investigators to relocate the vehicle to a safer, controlled area in order to reconstruct and further examine the events, especially if the scene was in danger of being compromised by the elements or the public.

"That's one big jigsaw puzzle."

Charlotte smiled on hearing Faulds and turned to face him, a plastic beaker of coffee in her outstretched hand.

Faulds nodded graciously as he accepted the drink, taking a long gulp before grimacing.

"Yeah," Charlotte said. "Another cup of station house finest."

"I'm beginning to think we should arrest whoever buys this stuff."

"Not even _you_ could make a case for that," she smiled. "Hey, listen, is everything okay?"

"Pretty much just the same since you saw me a couple of hours ago," he answered, looking slightly puzzled. "Why?"

"No, no," she waved. "It's fine. I was just wondering. Any further forward with the case?"

He shook his head, dismissing Charlotte's odd line of questioning. "Nah, I'm just back from the airport. Monaghan's interviewing everyone that had access to the flight, but nothing from that end so far. I've got samples and prints from them up in the lab, so hopefully that gives us something. And I _could_ make a case against this coffee," he said as he took another drink. "For crimes against humanity."

"You're not holding out hope for a connection to the airport, are you? Come on, level with me. You've got something else on your mind."

"Have you ever been in a helicopter?"

She cast a glance at the wreckage before turning back to Faulds. "I don't think that's going to fly, Cam."

He gave a small, genuine smile. "Have you?"

"No. You?"

"Almost, once."

"Don't tell me the mighty Cameron Faulds chickened out?"

"Someone convinced me to go on a rollercoaster instead. Tell me, why do people go flying?"

"Excuse me? Are we talking some existential, ascending to Heaven, Icarus thing?"

"I'm talking about a sightseeing thing. Radar says the helicopter was stationary in the air for a couple of minutes before it crashed."

"And you think they were, what, taking in the sights?"

"I think they were looking at something."

She bit her lower lip gently. "There's a lot in that area, everything from offices to industrial units to private apartments. Depending on their height, that's a big list of sights to go through. You think this has something to do with the crash?"

"Maybe not directly, but I think it's something. Obviously we don't have it in context, so…"

"So it's a big fat zero right now?"

"A real big one."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Talking to dead men."

_**XXX  
**_

The elevator doors closing in front of him, Faulds thumbed the button marked 'M'. With Led Zeppelin's _Immigrant Song_ playing through his earphones, he reflexively drummed his fingers against his jeans, matching the beat effortlessly.

The varied thoughts regarding the case shot through his mind, the various theories he was beginning to form and where the evidence linked in. Clearly the Irish connection was worrying; if it was somehow linked to terrorist or criminal groups, then it meant either a bomber or saboteur was active or there would be retaliatory killings for whoever died, and Faulds wanted neither in his city.

Alternatively, the angle of technology could not be ignored; if the co-pilot Dehany was a computer salesman like was claimed, then who was to say that hadn't attracted a corporate rival? Faulds had seen people do all kinds of brutal acts for greed, and it wouldn't be the first time he had seen boardroom rivalry turn to bloodshed.

But it wasn't the case the troubled him directly, it was Charlotte's earlier questions. Clearly she was concerned about something, and it wasn't hard to guess what. Obviously she had heard something said, some rumour or theory, which didn't surprise him at all. After all, with Abby's arrival, it was bound to kick off a fresh wave of gossip, but it still rankled him slightly.

_Maybe I deserve it, maybe not,_ he mused. _But when it starts getting to my team, I refuse to accept it_.

_Then again, whose fault is it?_

_Mine?_

The elevator opened out to a hallway, one of the lab assistants, Kerry, was sat behind a desk, working through a pile of paperwork.

"She's waiting for you," Kerry said, without looking up from the heap.

Faulds stepped through the doors into the mortuary proper, the unmistakeable combined aroma of dead bodies, medicinal alcohol and purified air filling his senses. It was a smell that Faulds was certainly no stranger to, but had never managed to get used to. Whether it was the chilled temperature from the air conditioning or the nature of the room itself, Faulds never felt quite at ease there.

The morgue itself was certainly unique, as far as Faulds had ever seen. Unlike other morgues he had visited that were dark, gothic and cloaked in shadow, this morgue had the last vestiges of natural sunlight creeping in through the windows on the west wall. Surrounded on three sides by full floor to ceiling windows, the top-floor morgue offered a stunning panorama of the city's varied skyline, the windows themselves tinted so that the view was strictly one-way, keeping any ghoulish would-be onlookers blind. The open view of busy city life was hugely at odds with the cold, still business at hand in the room.

And the two complete bodies laid out on steel examination tables, as well as various mangled body parts comprising what was remaining of the third victim.

"Ah, Mr Faulds," came the greeting. "I would appreciate if you could provide _whole_ victims from now on. I know that my skills are of the highest order, but admit it, you're just trying to make things difficult."

"Dr Adams," he grinned, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "Seriously, Beth, I appreciate the speed you're working on this, I'm not prepared to hand this case off to another agency and every extra step we takes increases our chances of holding on to it."

"You know, as a medical professional, I could point out that your personal dedication to cases occasionally borders on the over-zealous."

"Are we talking about me not wanting this taken over by AAIB?"

"I'm talking about this need you have to solve cases."

He shrugged. "The dead deserve it."

Beth nodded. Her time working with Faulds meant that she knew when to push the issue and when to drop it, and this was clearly the latter. As much as occasionally she wanted to grab hold of him and shake him until he realised the way his dedication to cases sporadically bordered on obsession, and the way that his methods and actions sometimes rubbed his colleagues the wrong way, she also knew that the same dedication and methods had often broken cases that had stumped others.

She also knew that Faulds' dark insights into the criminal mind were something that very few could truly understand, and that went some way to explaining his actions. She had often surmised that if she somehow knew what vicious and evil actions some individuals were willing commit, as Faulds did, then she too would do whatever it took to stop them.

Still, at times, Faulds had been his own worst enemy, and she was sure that at some point in the future, he would do so again, and without hesitation. The question was, what would it cost him?

"Come get introduced to my guests," she said, motioning to the examination tables.

The two complete bodies of the pilot and co-pilot, Boyle and Dehaney, lay on their backs, thick stitches across the Y-shaped incisions that cut down from their shoulders to their breastbones, then down to their stomachs. Like a scene out of a horror movie, the heart and lungs of each man lay next to them on steel plates, as did, almost inevitably, the brains.

Thankfully for Faulds' unsettled mood, Beth had replaced the sections of skull she had removed in order to examine and extract the brain of each man.

"Having a heart to heart?" Faulds asked, gesturing at the neatly arranged organs.

"I'm not even dignifying that with a reply."

"How about a preliminary report then?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You know I'd never let anyone else get away with hurrying me like that."

"Hurrying? Beth, I know you're already way ahead of me here," he smiled.

"You're far too charming for your own good, young man," she said wryly, turning to the closest body. "The pilot here has somewhat been through the wars."

Apart from the surgical cuts, the pilot's body was peppered with burns, irregular wounds and dark lesions.

"He suffered a massive epidural bleed, the blastwave would have literally shattered his skull."

Faulds examined the brain closely, dark dried blood caked on the surface. "Brain haemorrhage was C.O.D?"

"No, but it would have been had he survived his other injuries, collapsed lung, multiple broken bones, punctured stomach for starters."

"Lovely. So what killed him?"

Beth handed a glass jar to Faulds, bloodied metal shards rattling inside.

"Do I want to know where you pulled these from?"

"Mostly his heart," she said. "Both ventricles, but not exclusively. He also sustained extensive damage to the aorta and the superior vena cava."

"He bled out?"

"The explosion managed to cauterize and seal the wounds, meaning he bled internally. His blood pressure would have dropped out instantly, lividity shows the blood just stalled in position."

Faulds nodded. "Co-pilot?"

"Nothing as exotic, simple broken neck from the blast shockwave whipped his head one hundred and eighty degrees."

"Shut his nervous system down in a heartbeat."

"The last heartbeat he'd ever have."

"Anything else worth knowing?"

"Apart from their colourful deaths, your victims appear to be a study in mediocrity. Toxicology reports are normal, nothing in the blood, stomach contents or ocular fluid. There are no other injuries or irregularities, even down to a cellular level."

She turned to the remains of the third victim, set out on the steel table. The head and upper shoulders were gone completely, only a small portion of the upper spinal cord remained. Only five pairs of ribs were remaining, along with fragmented portions of the arms, chunks of burnt flesh clinging on. The majority of the lower body was set out on the table, although the feet were almost completely missing bar a few scattered toes. The badly damaged heart, lungs and stomach lay alongside.

Faulds took a breath. "Blown apart. Explosion came from the rear of the chopper, took out the rear seats completely."

"And your man here. This is all I could recover of him. Judging from his injuries, or at least from the injuries to what remains we have, it looks like the C.O.D was decapitation by the explosion."

"So it wasn't post-mortem?"

"The lungs say otherwise." She picked up a lung, opening it along a pre-made cut, revealing the inner flesh to be mostly pink. "If he'd been alive during the brief fire period, the lungs would contain some smoke debris or some heat blistering."

"At least it was quick."

"I managed to recover the fourth and fifth vertebrae, and the damage there indicates that the explosion came from behind, and was powerful enough to decapitate him." She raised a blackened section of spinal cord for Faulds to see closer.

"The severing was violent and jagged, see where the bones have split along the longitude?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I do wish you wouldn't mumble."

Faulds grinned in reply.

"Anyhow, the blast came over the seat first, as it was the route of less resistance, and snapped him forward before a split-second later, it came through the seat and destroyed whatever it came into contact with. He was dead before he knew it."

"The blast had dissipated by the time it got to the front of the chopper," Faulds said, turning to the other two bodies, imagining the blast in slow motion. "The shockwave dented the front seats but didn't shatter them like in the rear, or do the same amount of damage to the pilot and co-pilot… But it did enough."

"I've collected trace samples from the bodies, as well as D.N.A., they're down in the lab right now. But even better, there's this." Beth raised a glass dish to Faulds, a tiny fragment in the centre. "At first, I thought it was part of a metal case or one of the rear seats, but I cleaned it up, and it appears to be plastic."

"That…that is a fragment of a microchip," Faulds said, eyeing the fragment close up. "The chopper manifest said they were transporting computer parts, so this could be nothing, or on the other hand…".

"Talking of hands, if it makes a difference, it was embedded in the co-pilot's left palm. It wasn't deep either, if it had been a typical explosion shrapnel injury, the fragment would have been far deeper, possibly even through the hand. My guess is that it was from something he was holding in his hand at the time of the explosion."

"A phone?"

"It would seem most likely."

"The question is, was he making a call at the time?"

"You think that has any bearing on the case?" she asked.

"We still don't know if we're looking at an accident or murder yet, and if fuel vapour was leaking from the tanks, the phone could have triggered an explosion…"

"And if this wasn't an accident?"

"Then who was calling to say goodbye?"

_**XXX  
**_

Charlotte stepped back from the chopper, its parts arranged in order in the garage, mounted on scaffolding and supports. From the realigned aircraft parts, the chopper's extent of damage was more visible than at the original site.

Clad in overalls smeared with dirt and grime from the wreckage, she had been through again to ensure no evidence had been missed, and had come up with zero. Although good that Faulds and herself had missed nothing, it gave them no further leads.

Suddenly, her phone chirped with a familiar ringtone.

"Mr Faulds?"

"How's tricks down in the basement?"

"I've pulled the flight recorder, running analysis on it right now, but we won't have anything for a few hours."

"Are there any traces of a phone in the cabin?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"I think Dehany was making a phone call at the time of the crash. We may have a witness, at least an audio one."

"I've been through the cabin, there's nothing I can find. Phone could have been blown to bits, could have melted…"

At the other end of the phone, Faulds sighed. "Well," he finally said, "We'll find out when we get the results back from the black box."

"If there was a signal, it'll have recorded it. You got anything else for me?" Abruptly, her mobile bleeped, a single note signifying an SMS.

"Bingo," she smiled, "Sorry, Cam, I've got to scoot."

"Well I've got nothing anyway. Hey, about earlier," he said, lowering his voice. "I don't want you worry about anything, okay?"

"Sometimes it can't be helped. I just want you to know that…"

"Charlotte," he interrupted. "I know. I'll talk to you later."

The connection went dead.

"Cameron Faulds," she said quietly with a shake of the head. "You sure know how to make a girl concerned."

She flicked through the phone menu until she settled on the new text message. Satisfied, she began walking from the garage into the lab proper, "Thank you, PNC."

The PNC, or Police National Computer, was a combined catch-all database that did the work of the American equivalents CODIS and AFIS, as well as others. PNC served as a database for offender details and convictions, DNA samples, fingerprints, registry of trace evidence, firearms and ballistics data, gang-related tattoos and territory graffiti, chemical and biological compositions and more.

As Charlotte strolled into the Trace department of the Glasgow lab, a lone figure flashed her a squint grin as he cheerily waved a mobile phone. Eddie Watt, the resident evidence analysis genius , was, as usual, surrounded by chaos; case files and bagged evidence in loose groups that seemingly lacked rhyme or reason. But as with all good geniuses, everything made sense to Eddie; he knew, without hesitation, where any piece of evidence could be found in the lab, and had never failed to present any item when required.

Eddie's working practices were naturally unpopular with some members of the lab, but as far as Charlotte was concerned, he delivered consistent results, and that was good enough for her.

Eddie was heavyset, with dark messy hair and a couple days worth of stubble matched with a scruffy pair of jeans and a T-shirt adorned with multiple stains.

"Running an experiment, Eddie?" she asked, pointing to a dark patch under the chin.

"Nope, it's just egg," he cheerfully replied. Apart from his appearance, his London accent marked him out from the majority of the Glasgow staff.

"I'm just waiting on the DNA results from the morgue coming through, just thought I'd, you know, say hi before it arrived."

She barely suppressed a small smile. "Well, hi."

Under the layer of stubble, Eddie blushed slightly before suddenly grabbing for a printout lying at the peak of a pile.

"I've got an I.D. on your car vic," he blurted, a little loudly.

"Already?"

"Faulds fingerprinted the severed arm at the scene and buzzed 'em over to me, got a hit on PNC."

"Anything serious?" she asked, taking the printout.

"Just a couple of minor driving offences, speeding, illegal parking…"

Charlotte frowned as she read the rap sheet, "Well, Mr Phillip Harris, it's a pity we had to meet like this. I'll get uniform onto notifying his next of kin."

"What a way to go. I mean, crushed to death by a helicopter. That's pissy luck."

"Or murder."

Out of the blue, the computer _pinged_ a notice that the results Eddie had been waiting for had arrived. With a lopsided smile, he swivelled the screen around before his expression abruptly dropped.

"What?" Charlotte asked.

"Whoa."

"_What_?"

Eddie stared hard at the screen. "This is something I've never seen before."

He whirled the screen round to face Charlotte, a singular box in the centre of the screen in place of the usual photo and details of the matched individual. In serious, bold red lettering 'INSUFFICIENT ACCESS LEVEL' flashed repeatedly.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Charlotte said, reaching for her phone. "That this is not going to be easy."

_**XXX**_

****

Faulds glared at the screen and its repeating message, seemingly lost in thought. All three D.N.A. and fingerprint searches from the chopper's occupants had come back with the same dead end message.

"Okay, so we're getting nowhere with the victims' identities right now," he finally said. "So we move on."

"We're just ignoring this?" Charlotte asked. "Cameron, this is something serious if we can't find out who these men are. We need to find out who's blocking our investigation."

"I'm not ignoring anything, Charlotte."

She pointed at the screen. "Well someone doesn't want us knowing who these guys are."

"And we're not going to find out this way. We process the rest of the evidence and go that route."

"Someone's blocking us and you're not concerned?"

"I'm not saying I'm unconcerned, I'm saying we move on."

"I'm saying, respectfully, I think you're wrong."

A heavy silence fell on the room.

"Who can do this?" Eddie asked suddenly, clearly attempting to break the tension. "I mean, if CSI doesn't have the clearance, who does?"

"Could be any one of numerous sources," Faulds said. "And whoever it is that's blocking us will reveal themselves soon enough, so I say we concentrate on the evidence we do have rather than wasting time following bureaucratic trails." He turned to Charlotte. "Respectfully, of course," he smiled.

She mock-frowned. "See, that was all you had to say."

Faulds clapped his hands together suddenly. "Right then, evidence, it might tell us something more than prints ever could. Ed, what's trace giving us?"

"Right, uh, yeah. Black powder first, the stuff you found all around the inside of the cabin?" Eddie thumbed a pocket remote, wall-mounted screens around the viewing room suddenly showing a chemical formula. "We're looking at trace amounts of C5H8N4O12 ."

"Murder," Faulds said simply. The evidence confirmed his fears; this had been deliberate, but worse, was expertly done.

"And Pentaerythritol Tetranitrate," he added. "That's a lot of bang for your buck."

"Better known as PETN," Charlotte replied. "One of the strongest known high explosives, 200 grams will knock a decent-sized hole in pretty much anything. This stuff is military grade, hard to get hold of."

"Unless of course you _are_ in the military. Or you're connected enough to get hold of it, which indicates, well, organized crime or paramilitary connections."

"Pretty wide areas," she said.

"And now for the stuff you pulled off the co-pilot's cheek," Eddie interjected, "Which I'm sorry to say isn't any more exciting high explosives, but plain old cocaine. Not even pharm-grade, just street level, cut with the usual crap; baby powder, bit of rat poison. Sorry to ruin the mystique there."

"You've done quite enough already, thanks," Faulds said absent-mindedly.

"So we've got explosives, drugs and mystery men? What next? If we…"

They were interrupted by the two suited men that walked into the lab, looking sombre, dark and serious. One of the men directly approached Faulds and offered his hand.

"Cameron Faulds? It sounds like you have a problem there, but maybe I can help you with that. Robert Bently, Security Service."

"Security Service?" Ed asked. "Sounds like something from a comic book."

"That's their official name," Faulds said. "We know them better as MI5."


	5. Spooked

**CHAPTER 5: SPOOKED**

MI5.

The organization responsible for the domestic security of the United Kingdom and its citizens.

And two of its agents stood in the heart of the Glasgow CSI lab.

Hesitantly, Faulds shook Bently's hand. "Cameron Faulds. Excuse my confusion here, gentlemen, but I'm at a loss to understand why MI5 have dispatched two of their agents."

"A helicopter crashes as it leaves a British airport, of course that's going to be a matter for state security."

"We've only just begun our investigations, there's no need for MI5 to be anywhere near our investigation right now. You'll have our findings as soon as we have them."

Bently smiled thinly. "I appreciate that, but you have to understand that if this is any kind of a terrorist action, we cannot afford to waste any time." He gestured at the screens. "And since you seem to be investigating some explosives…"

"Explosives don't necessarily mean terrorists, Agent Bently," Charlotte interjected. "Anyway, if it does turn out to be terrorists, we'll just call John Smeaton," she added dryly.

The two agents stared blankly before Bently continued. "CSI Graham? With all due respect, I don't think you're enough of an expert in the field to talk in such certainties."

Charlotte and Faulds exchanged a small glance before she replied. "Maybe not, but I am certain enough to know that in an investigation like this, if you go charging off in the wrong direction, then all you're doing is wasting time. We don't like to jump to conclusions around here."

Bently looked at the floor for a second before returning his gaze to Faulds. "May we talk to you both alone?"

Four sets of eyes fell on Eddie Watt.

"You, er, want me to bugger off?" he eventually asked Faulds.

"Please, Ed."

The stocky figure walked past the two MI5 agents, eying them warily as he went.

"Don't let them move anything," he said as he reached the door.

"Ed…"

He held up one hand in a gesture of acceptance before leaving the room, the other emerging from his pocket with a mangled chocolate bar as he sauntered out of the lab.

"Now that we're free of interruptions," Bently said, "This is my colleague, Tom Lawson."

Lawson nodded, unsmiling.

"Gentlemen," Faulds began, "I understand your agency's concern, but my lab and my staff are more than able to adequately handle this situation. Let me reassure you that you'll be the first to be notified as soon as we find something. In fact, we already have strong leads that we're investigating." He paused, hoping to read something from Bently's reactions, but the MI5 agent remained impassive.

"I hope it's more than the presence of explosives," Bently said. "That doesn't narrow things much."

"On the contrary," said Faulds. "It tells me everything I could want to know about our bomber."

"Such as?"

Faulds smiled. "You're not asking me to give away all of my party tricks already, are you?"

Bently nodded. "Okay, I'll just settle for what he had for breakfast this morning," he said with a smile.

"It was hearty, possibly a fry-up," Faulds replied quickly. "Our bomber is experienced, knows what they're doing to an extent, knows to be prepared and to eat when it's safe in the case they have to run later. No caffeine though, they won't want the jitters when they're priming a detonator."

The two agents stared at Faulds.

"What can I say," Charlotte added. "He's good."

"Well," Bently said. "I knew your background was impressive, but I never thought you'd be telling me I need to start collecting sausages as evidence," he joked. "Now if you'll just surrender your evidence to us, we'll have a team pick up…"

Faulds and Charlotte exchanged a baffled look. "Surrender our evidence? On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that its my job now to find this bomber. Again, we appreciate the work you've done thus far, and we'll make it very clear that your lab gets full recognition for your work…"

"We're not looking for recognition, we're looking for a suspect," Faulds said sharply.

Bently held his hands up. "Listen, if it was up to me, I'd be happy to leave this case in your capable hands." He reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a nondescript envelope. "I have all the documentation here."

Faulds ignored the paperwork. "You don't have the jurisdiction here. This is a Strathclyde matter, Scottish law dictates that all sudden deaths are under the remit of the local Procurator Fiscal..."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it's not up for discussion."

"Then get your Director-General on the phone, and we'll discuss it then."

"It's not as easy as that, Cameron," Bently said, an edge to his voice.

"Well until I hear otherwise from someone who has the authority, this case stays with my lab."

"This comes from the top. This isn't about petty points scoring between departments, this is a matter of national security. Hell, this is a matter of reassuring the public that they're safe. And before you say anything, I'm not doubting the ability of your staff, but you know how the public are, they're quick to disregard any official explanations and jump into full-blown panic.

"The press will be over this thing like a rash, and by tomorrow morning every paper in the Western world will be running this story. All that does is stir up more panic, and before you know it, we have journalists and politicians looming over us, over _all of us_. We're in the same team after all.

"The public and the media are increasingly cynical towards incidents like this. Do you know what they backlash is to incidents like this? No-one believes that things are simply black and white anymore, since 9/11 even the most mundane accident is turned into a terrorist conspiracy and a Government cover-up."

"So you're saying you're taking over our investigation for a _public relations _exercise?" Charlotte asked.

"The British Government merely wants to show it is dedicating its best resources to any potential terrorist action," Lawson said coldly, speaking for the first time.

"We _are_ the best resource," Faulds said firmly.

Lawson snorted. "Given the chequered history of this lab and its personnel, I doubt that."

"And you guys will do what?" Faulds asked. "Bring in a number of techs that don't know each other's methods and trip each other up?"

"We have our teams already in place, they're well versed in working with each other."

"And they're used to criminal investigations, are they? They're qualified criminologists with knowledge of the fields and theories involved, experience in working within Scots Law, as well as connections within the local law enforcement, the judiciary and the media?"

Lawson glared hard at Faulds.

"Maybe not then," the CSI smiled.

"This is bigger than CSI, Mr Faulds. Now…"

"Doctor."

"Excuse me?"

"Dr Faulds, not mister. If you're coming into my lab and trying to take my cases then I at least expect some professional courtesy."

Bently smiled briefly. "I apologise, _Dr_ Faulds. But the fact remains, we're taking over this investigation. You've done some great work up until now, but this isn't your case any more."

_Looks like the subtle approach isn't working_, thought Faulds. _Plan B goes a little bit more direct_.

"It's still my case, and the bodies upstairs in my morgue say otherwise, but I suppose you know more about them than we do."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Spare me. We've just run their prints through PNC and hit a brick wall. CSI doesn't have the access, which means government-level clearance, which means _you_, you who have just happened to turn up in my lab. Now they're what, members of the service? Witness protection? Maybe informants? And before you spin a line, just remember that if I have to look through intelligence briefings myself by hand, I _will_ find out who they are. And no matter how long it takes, I will come knocking on your door and this investigation will start all over again.

"Now, you tell me who they are, you tell me why you're really here, and you let me and my team get on with this investigation."

Bently levelled Faulds with a dead-eye stare, his jovial mood gone.

"I was expecting this from you, Faulds."

"Then I'm glad I haven't disappointed you. So it goes like this, you can either work with me, or against me, and if you think I'm being awkward right now, you're in for one hell of a surprise if you try to undermine my lab."

"You can't blackmail your way into this investigation."

"I don't need to, this is already my investigation."

Lawson scowled. "Think you're pretty funny, don't you?"

"Just one of my many talents." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlotte close her eyes in exasperation.

Lawson took a step forward. "You think this is some kind of joke? The joke his that you think your little outfit has any say in this matter."

Faulds met the MI5 agent's glare. "I tell you what, fellas, I've had enough of these fun and games." His expression darkened. "Now, get the hell out of my lab."

_**XXX**_

Faulds pulled his earphones out on Charlotte's entrance to the trace lab. After Bently and Lawson's departure, she had left to collect the results of the black box analysis, saying little as she had gone.

"Ed not back yet?" she asked.

"I think he's in the huff," he replied, attempting to read her mood.

"Well I've got the results from the flight recorder here, and there's no evidence of a systems failure beforehand, which at least means we're on the right track." Charlotte read the printout carefully. "However, there were two signals picked up by the black box before the explosion, one was a standard cellular signal, the other was a much higher frequency."

"The detonator?"

"Looks like it. There was a cellular call for twenty three seconds, but the black box only picked up the second signal for a split-second before the explosion."

Faulds drummed his fingers on the desk. "So the chopper received a remote signal before it blew, which means it's someone who _really_ knows what they're doing."

"Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"Neither and both." He fixed Charlotte with a quizzical look. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, her tone clipped.

"Somehow I don't think…"

"Do you ever hold back?" she said suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"You just got into an argument with two MI5 agents. MI5...government agents, Cameron. I mean, I can see Rav doing that, in fact, I'm surprised he _hasn't_ done that already, but…"

"Charlotte…"

"Nothing…Just that's the first time since I've known you that you've made someone call you doctor, _doctor_. If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to start a fight."

Faulds smiled slightly. "He knew what he was saying, you don't think that they _didn't_ look through our files before turning up? I'm not letting him score points against us, not in my lab."

"Don't take this personal, Cameron," she warned. "This isn't against you."

"I can't help it," he shrugged.

"Well you need to help it. This is one fight you can't win, and the repercussions are serious."

"Well they can threaten me with all the repercussions they like, all I'm concerned about is this bomber."

She shook her head. "Fine, I'll stop trying to save your career from an ass-kicking. Got any ideas then?"

"Well our killer clearly knows what they're doing, so they're either experienced somehow or they've had some tuition from someone who has. Your typical bomber is a coward, they'll avoid direct contact as much as possible, up until a point, so our killer isn't brave, isn't athletic, isn't a fighter. Our killer is deceitful, capable of lying, not just to police, but to their family, friends and colleagues."

"Colleagues?"

"Either criminal colleagues, or standard employment. Our killer is intelligent, at least as intelligent as you have to be to make a bomb without taking their own head off. It's nothing too high up though, our killer just obliterated a helicopter in the middle of the city, so they're too much of a sociopath to deal with many people under them.

"This means possibly trained construction or ex-military, if they're not, then they know someone who is, someone they trust, deeply. It's not just trust in not ratting them out to the police, it's the trust that this bomb isn't going to kill the maker. They're literally putting their life in the hands of another."

"And if they've already got a criminal background?"

Faulds drummed his fingers together. "Then it means connections."

"So we could be talking any number of groups or criminal gangs. Doesn't exactly narrow things down."

"I know. Anyone that's ever cracked a safe could be in the frame."

"In this city? Our list of suspects would be like a phonebook. We'll get nowhere unless we can get the information we need on the victims. Who they are tells us what they're involved with and who they know."

"I don't think MI5 want to give up their secrets, though. It's too much of a coincidence that we can't access the information and they're trying to take this case from us. It has to be them behind this block. But until we can get that information from them, we're fighting blind."

"So where does that leave us?"

"I need you to get back out to the airport."

She raised an eyebrow. "We miss something?"

"Maybe we did. I want you to try and track down the car that the victims arrived in, see if that gives us any new angles. If it's not there, see if you can track down some CCTV tapes, might give us a witness."

"What about you?"

"Just offender files. Miles and miles of files."

_**XXX**_

Faulds was midway through a list of known offenders that had similar a modus operandi of bomb-making, three-quarters into a can of Red Bull and just finishing Scouting for Girls' debut album when his phone rang. Grumbling, he snapped it open.

"Making some new friends, Faulds?"

He laughed on hearing the voice of Clive Andrews, the Area Procurator Fiscal for Glasgow. Although the Procurator Fiscal was responsible for public prosecutions in Scotland, and overseeing the direction of cases, in murder cases the police normally completed their investigations before involving the PF.

_So why do I have the APF calling now? _Faulds wondered. _Can't be good, whatever the case_.

"I hear you've had some visitors," Clive noted.

"Yeah, charming they were, too."

"Well charming or not, they're not exactly enamoured with you."

Faulds grinned. "They shouldn't try to take my cases."

"They're not trying, they've taken it."

The grin crashed off Faulds' face. "What?"

"I had them in my office earlier. They've got the paperwork, Cameron, dotted and crossed. The case is theirs."

"And we have no say in it?"

"None, this isn't like Lockerbie," Clive said, referring to the investigation into the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over the Scottish town of Lockerbie in 1988. Despite the case involving all levels of British governmental agencies, the AAIB, the American FBI, Department of Defence and even NASA, the investigation fell first and foremost under the direction of the Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary. "It's a different world now, Faulds, and we're bumped down the list accordingly. No-one thinks local cops are capable of adequately investigating another front in the war on terror," he said acerbically. "I don't even have the details of the case myself. Whatever this case is connected to, we're not privy to that knowledge."

Faulds slammed his hand onto the desk. "So where does that leave us?"

"It leaves you with no investigation, I'm afraid. Everything connected to the deaths of the chopper's occupants is off-limits, which means no further analysis of evidence. And Cameron, don't go thinking of going around me on this one, it's not just your arse on the line if you go against this one, they'll hammer any of your techs or morgue staff if they go anywhere near this. Career suicide for anyone with a hint of involvement."

"I take it they told you that themselves?"

"Expressly. Seems like they've been doing their homework on you."

"I really have to stop caring," Faulds deadpanned. "So there's nothing we can do?"

"I'm sorry, Cameron, it's over. This investigation isn't yours anymore."


End file.
